


To Everything There is a Season

by srsly_yes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, House Series Finale Arc, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trip to the farmer’s market with Wilson brings out the best and worst in House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Everything There is a Season

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** Set during the weekend after the events in "Holding On." The time frame for some of the produce borders on AU.  
>  **Disclaimer:** [H]ouse isn’t mine and never will be.  
>  **A/N:** An idea that I had played with over the past year. I’m glad I held off until now.  
> 

Wilson straddles the driver’s seat with one leg firmly planted in the packed dirt of the parking lot. He bristles like an eager, young beagle after a fox. “Are you coming with?” He raps the roof of the car with his knuckles. “Or are you going to sit there and parboil in the heat?”

House rolls his eyes and heaves out of the car, mumbling, “Cherries and tomatoes and jerky, oh my.”

 

 

The sun had barely warmed the floorboards of his apartment when Wilson appeared on his doorstep sporting his Mayberry ensemble—cap, khaki, and plaid, announcing another road trip. Shorter this time, to a homespun town in the wilds of New Jersey where an unusually early crop of cherries could be purchased for three times the price at the local market.

“Go away. Busy planning my prison break.” House tried closing the door in Wilson’s face, but was met with a braced arm and sunny resistance.

“We can discuss files and explosives during the drive.” He tilted his head to a jaunty angle. A look that sucked House in every time with or without the double chin. Why hadn’t he noticed its absence sooner?

“If I recall, we pass Mickey’s on the way.” Wilson arched an eyebrow. “We can draw escape routes on the napkins while waiting for our food.”

It was on the tip of House’s tongue to answer, _Six months in jail is no laughing matter,_ but caught himself and released the doorknob. “I’ll get my jacket.”

 

 

Trailing a few steps behind Wilson, House prefers a scorched earth policy in regards to free samples. He wolfs down slivers of fruit, cubes of cheese, hummus spread on scraps of pita. Showing no remorse, his hand dives past smaller, sticky ones to swipe the last bit of cookie from a tray. He washes it down with paper thimbles of coffee and apple juice.

Munching contentedly on a slice of organic nine-grain bread—much tastier at zero cost to him, House watches fascinated as Wilson judges produce. It’s somewhat like a breast exam. He’s the King Solomon of tomatoes, picking carefully, selecting dark, red ones with taut skins, hefting them in his hands to judge their weight, fondling them to check the firmness of their juicy interiors.

His interest lags after the sixth. He steals a huge, heart-shaped strawberry from the top of a basket, ignoring the vendor’s glare. “Wilson, are you going to make love to it or eat it?”

“On weekends my father used to take me to the produce markets,” Wilson says with a wistful smile.

“Every boy’s dream.” House nods and pops another into his mouth. The owner walks over and picks up the basket, pouring the strawberries into a plastic bag. House points to Wilson. “He’s paying. And throw in the container. My science project is due next week.”

While Wilson talks cheese and soap and moisturizers on the shady side of the aisle, House makes himself at home next to a row of gleaming canisters shining in the sun. They’re filled with almonds and come in slightly less flavors than Jelly Bellies. He’s halfway through the stand, tipping two wasabi-coated nuts into his hand when he hears Wilson coughing next to him.

“Chipotle.” Wilson chokes out, pointing with one hand to the container, but then his fingers touch his chest.

Suddenly House is full. “Can we find your fucking mythical cherries and go?”

 

 

The stand is at the far corner from where they parked the car. There are more empty crates under the table than full ones on top. House leans on his cane while Wilson raises the bar on the definition of "cherry-pick". He’s a maharaja searching through a pile of garnets and red spinel for rubies. They’ll be here forever.

Half a bag later, Wilson hasn’t stopped, but he offers an explanation. “When I was a kid I used to watch my grandmother make sour cherry soup.”

“When I was a kid I used to watch my grandfather fill shotgun shells. I don’t drag you to gun shows, do I?”

Wilson works his mouth silently, framing a response. He finally says, “It’s spring, House.”

House casts a glance down. Delicate, curving stems and naked pits are scattered on the ground. He nods. “Gather ye cherries while ye may, Wilson.”

But before Wilson can continue, two chattering old women swoop down on the dwindling pile of fruit like beady-eyed crows, elbowing Wilson out of the way as they carelessly scoop handfuls of cherries into their bags. Wilson stands by helpless. Caring about little old ladies is his kryptonite.

The women have the opposite affect on House. They attained what Wilson will never have. Wilson's gray hair will never spread beyond his temples, or his face crepe with wrinkles. It’s unfair. It stinks. He grips his cane until his fingers cramp.

He crams himself between the two women and draws in a dramatic series of inhaled breaths. “Ah… AH… “ He opens his eyes wide.

The cherries drop from their blue-veined hands as the women stare up at him.

“CHOO!!!” A mist of spray covers the pallet of fruit. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and mutters, “I thought I was over the flu."

The women fly off on their broomsticks.

***

It’s late afternoon when Wilson drops House off in front of his apartment. Before House climbs out of the car, Wilson thrusts a bag of tomatoes into his hand.

“You’re an ass, House,” Wilson says with the stinger removed. “Come by my place tomorrow for the most decadent, artery clogging cherry soup you ever tasted in your life.”

Back in his kitchen, House pulls the tomatoes out of the sack, placing them one by one on the butcher’s block. The last he cups in his hand and stares at it. It’s beautiful but not perfect.

 

.


End file.
